Finger on the Trigger
by temet nosce
Summary: Nothing remains except the two of them.


Finger on the Trigger

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Rating: R

Pairing: House/Chase

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Summary: Nothing remains except the two of them.

•

You remember Chase, chewing on a pencil, eyes behind a curtain of hair, and nowhere else to go but down. Overcast skies (gray-blue) and the windows echoing rain throughout the conference room, you sat with your cane and thought about Chase's hands soft and capable, and possibly taking advantage of his not so deeply buried daddy issues. You needed a reason, Chase and you don't have the best working relationship, and you want this thing to start unfolding.

Later you remember this: Chase coming to you about Vogler, you resisting the urge to smash his face in with your cane, muffled gasps, teeth skirting collarbones, and your chest pressing into his back, your voice cold and hateful.

•

"_Jesus_, you're rough," he says as you kiss him for the first time, awkwardly shoving you both up against a glass wall, hands grasping at Chase's shoulders. Your clothes stopped being fresh hours ago and an overwhelming sense of desperation clings to both of you regardless of your posturing.

"What did you expect?" you replies.

The attempt at hiding this nothing between the both of you brings out something in Chase and it makes him more appealing to you. He could have chosen someone else and you're old and harsh, harsher than you'd ever admit, and you remain careful about Chase's distances. You kiss Chase with hard dry lips, a lack of both softness and effort. You shove him towards the floor, force his knees into the carpet, and you're in a hurry when you come in his mouth because it's Friday and you don't want to miss General Hospital.

•

He understands you less than half of the time, there are these pieces of you that'll never belong to anyone else, and it's funny that Chase thought he could ever diagnose you. He tried once, something about _admitting these things_, but you just laughed and turned his hand over, running your tongue across his palm, sucking at the pulse point in his wrist while you sought out the nerves under his skin. You bit at his lips and fell back against the mattress, taking him down with you, and his hands trailed your body as he wrote himself onto your skin.

There was an anxious but self-assured rattle in his throat the next morning when he told you he was leaving. You wondered how ridiculous you seemed to him, telling him not to be late to work, but especially when you asked him if he wanted any breakfast before he left.

•

Watching him watching you is getting really old.

"What?" you ask him, with a mouth full of rice.

He holds up his hands, "Nothing. It's just that," he pauses, looking as though he's practicing sadness, "I don't think this is a good idea. Never did, actually."

You sigh. The sex isn't even good anymore.

"Yeah," you agree, feeling the lines of his face under your fingers.

Your head rolls back and he sucks at your Adam's apple as his arms go around your neck, tugging you to him. His mouth moves along your jaw towards your cheek. As he settles on top of you his hands come to a standstill at your hip, curled at your throat, and your eyes are open until you see his flutter closed.

•

Chase wants Stacy to leave. Her presence as of late has made you act more House-like, and really, nobody wants that. Chase wants more than for her to disappear; he wishes she could just leave you the way you were before. Which was the same, really, except for your leg, but you will always be angry with her about the leg, and she can take whatever else you decide to blame on her also. Chase gets that, he understands (or assumes he does, which is as close to understanding as people often get), and though this thing with you seems near incestuous, with Chase looking for some kind of redemption and you making it perfectly clear that it's unattainable while whispering _try try try_ against his body or sitting on Chase's couch, making fun of his pedigree while backlit by windows full of yellow-white stars and black sky.

•

Chase counts the patients who aren't saved and you mock each and every one. You fuck throughout the hospital, in empty stairwells, offices, once in the men's bathroom in Pediatrics, and now in the backseat of his car. You clench your jaw as he works on your belt.

"Why don't you take your own pants off?" he mutters while shaking the hair out of his face.

"This way takes longer," you reply, "and I'm not in the mood for clinic duty."

"You're disgusting—"

You kiss him and wrap your fingers tighter around the base of his neck. He tries to pull away at first but he always does. Your face underneath his hands seems to shut him up and when you laugh it sounds ugly in the cramped space of the car.

•

Chase reminds you of Wilson as he once was, without the neckties as stalemates and those annoying little tight-lipped smiles that surface when you talk about his wife and all the things they don't share. You want to tell him, warn him about certain things like losing faith in himself as an individual and not to let someone else make him a smaller person. These are things you should've mentioned to Wilson at some point, and maybe you've let Wilson down in that regard, but you could never deny logic, which tells you that regret is the perfect alibi.

•

He asks you why afterwards you never sleep in your own bed when he is there; you tell him something about the Vicodin, it's always something about the Vicodin, its side effects, and he believes you easy enough, but you've never liked those types of conversations. You press your hands into his thighs and around his waist until you see nothing.

Later, he's asleep in your bed and you're sitting in your worn armchair and watching muted television. The way his voice follows you throughout your apartment and him taking credit for your good moods, he reminds you of Stacy, and you used to think you'd get away from her, too.


End file.
